Page 19 of Shattered Promise

Where can I go?

My parents’ house is out of the question. I’d barely make it through the front door before my mom’s eyes welled up, before my dad put a hand on my shoulder and asked what happened in that voice that’s always too calm when he’s trying not to loseit. Then they’d call my brothers, and it would become a whole thing. A family crisis. Everyone trying to fix it. Trying to fix me.

And I can’t be that daughter. Not ever.

I press my hand to my face, like I can force myself back into something solid. Something presentable. My palm brushes the swollen edge of the bruise, and the pain is sharp enough to center me—for a second.

And that’s when it hits me: the cabin.

Nana Jo’s tiny cabin on the edge of Avalon Falls. Quiet. Forgotten. Barely touched since the lawyer handed me the deed two years ago.

I never told anyone about it. Not because I was hiding it—at least not at first—but because no one else said anything about what Nana Jo left them either. Like we’d all silently agreed that whatever she passed down was meant to stay private. And then, as the months wore on, it slipped to the back of my mind. A what-if I never made time for.

But now?

It’s the first thought that doesn’t make me want to crawl out of my skin. It’s oxygen. A lifeline. And the idea that Nana Jo might be looking out for me from wherever she is now sends another wave of tears skimming up behind my ribs.

I blink them back. One crisis at a time.

A thousand square feet. Solar powered. A battered tin mailbox and questionable cell service. Tucked close to a creekbank on a stretch of land so green it felt like stepping into another world.

I’ve only seen it once—more than a decade ago—and all I remember is trees taller than rooftops and the sound of wind in the grass. I think there was a sunroom. A fireplace tucked into a corner. Maybe pale yellow curtains fluttering at the windows?

Everything else is a blur. A watercolor memory left out in the rain.

But it’s mine. And more importantly, it’s not here.

I stand on shaky legs, careful not to look in the mirror as I move through the apartment. My reflection feels like a betrayal right now—too raw, too exposed. Not broken, exactly. Just not . . . polished. Not put together the way I’m supposed to be.

I tug on my favorite black leggings and a hoodie, tugging the sleeves down over my wrists like armor. Then I grab my suitcase from the closet and start tossing things inside. Clothes I barely register. A handful of toiletries. My laptop. Chargers. The book I was supposed to read for Francesca’s book club this month, but haven’t even cracked open. I pack in a daze, throwing things in at random and hoping for the best.

A week—or two—on my own might be good for me. A reset. Something gentle for a heart that doesn’t feel steady in my chest anymore.

Just the thought of getting away makes my throat go tight. Like I’ll fall apart if anyone looks at me too long. I hate that. I hate how fragile I feel. Like I might splinter down the middle if someone asks if I’m okay. I haven’t cried. Not really.

But something tells me I will. Maybe once I’m tucked inside Nana Jo’s cabin—my cabin—surrounded by trees and silence and a version of the world that doesn’t require anything from me.

I set my bag by the door and scan the apartment like I’ve forgotten something. But the truth is, I don’t care. Whatever I didn’t pack, I’ll figure it out. I just need to leave. Before I talk myself out of it. Before I slip back into the habit of smiling through it and pretending I’m fine.

I swipe open my phone, thumb hovering over the text thread with my boss. I can’t explain what happened. Not really. So I keep it simple.

Me: I'm taking you up on your suggestion of using some vacation days. I’ll send over the gala debrief by the end of the day so you’ve got it for Monday’s board meeting.

I hit send before I can overthink it. And then I grab my bag, shove my sunglasses on, and walk out the door without looking back.

The morning is overcast—muted gray skies and the smell of damp pavement. I stand on the sidewalk in front of my apartment building, checking the Uber app again. My ride’s five minutes away, crawling through early city traffic.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other, trying not to wince when the wind brushes against my face. I don’t want to think about what I look like right now. Don’t want to think at all.

“Abby?”

The voice hits me from the side—soft, unsure. I turn, and my stomach drops.

Beth is standing a few feet away, holding a pastry bag and a tray with two coffees. Her hair’s back in a braid, and there’s something too bright in her eyes.

I blink. “How—what are you doing here?"

“I was just stopping by. To check on you after last night.”

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